Misanthropy

For some reason or another, the morning commute on the subway has the ability to make you hate every single person alive.

It probably has to do with how being herded like cattle onto rail cars can in no way be considered the best way to start your day–or a self-esteem boost, for that matter. That’s why I’m always the guy who waits to get on last; it makes me feel like a cowboy. (“Don’t mind if I brand you ma’am. Just doin’ my job. Keep ‘er movin’.” I keep the brands warm with the 600 volts of electricity on that little ‘ol third rail.) Actually, I just like to be near the exit, particularly since rushing onto the train and getting stuck somewhere in the middle means you can’t always find something to lean on or hold on to. Also, I don’t like worrying about getting raped. (“Excuse me sir. Your hand is in my pocket. Yes, it is and no, that’s not your…”)

This morning I couldn’t escape being stuck in the middle of the car because today was some pushy woman’s day to be the cowboy. It was being molested that helped me finally realize why I never bring coffee for the ride like so many other yuppies. (“Excuse me. Miss? You’re drinking my coffee. Also, your hand is in my pocket. No, that’s not your…Well, now what do we do? We can’t spoon. There’s nowhere to go except two inches to your left and that’s not a bed.”) We were actually so packed that I couldn’t read, couldn’t move, couldn’t listen to my own music. I didn’t want to reach up and pretend that palming the ceiling would prevent me from falling over because I knew that doing that would just mean I’d be pushing everyone around so I could touch the ceiling and look more like a yuppie. (“Yeah, I’m so strong I can hold myself in place by attempting to push the roof off while pitting in your face. So…lemme get ya number.”) Also, we were packed enough that there was no way I would ever be able to fall over. (“Pardon me, miss, but your version of ‘I Like the Way You Move’ is a little corrupt. No, that’s not what I meant–no, it’s just that your earbuds are a little loud, your hair’s in my mouth and the snare’s a little scratchy. Big Boi sounds like he’s inhaled three balloons. No, that’s not your pocket…”)

So when I finally got off the subway today, I took like three hundred deep breaths, put my jacket back on (and dropped the blood splattered gloves I’d used in my imagination to kill everyone on the car with me: “No, no, sir. Just measuring your neck for a new shirt. Oh! Where’d this scapel come from?” Dead.) and cursed the whole way to work.